Enchanted
by Phoenix II
Summary: Troy watches Ryan do a show.  Tryan, oneshot


**Enchanted**

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

**Summary: Troy watches Ryan do a show. Tryan.**

**-.-**

My name is Troy Bolton, and I am in love. I have been seduced, but the one whose spell I've come under has no idea he's even cast it. That's right, I said "he." I'm in love with a boy. I'm not particularly bothered at the moment about the fact that I'm in love with someone of my own gender. I can't take my eyes off him.

Ryan Evans owns the stage. The stage is his bitch. He looks so natural up there, like he belongs there. What he's doing up there, though, has me completely under his spell. He's doing some sort of one-man show. With singing. In French.

I'm a sucker for foreign languages. Speak to me in another language, and I will do anything you want. Accents make me drool like an idiot. As far as I can tell, this … play? Musical? whatever, is about someone who's fallen in love with a friend. I can tell you this not because I speak French, but because Ryan was kind enough to include the translations in the playbill.

This song that he's singing right now is called "Pourquoi Pas," which is apparently French for "Why not?" It's perfect for his vocal range. His tenor has a higher sound to it, and there's no way he could hit the lower notes of my range, and I could never hope to hit the higher notes of his.

"_Mon ami, vous ne seriez pas mon amant?_" he sings, sadly, towards offstage where the object of his desire stands. My friend, would you not be my lover?

"_Mon ami, vous ne pourriez pas être mon amant?_" You have to feel bad for Jean, I mean, Ryan. He's really pouring a lot of emotion into this song…almost like he identifies with his character. My friend, could you not be my lover?

"_Et si non, mon ami, pourquoi pas?_" And if not, my friend, why not? True to his dramatic nature, Jean collapses into a heartbroken heap as the last note falls from his lips and the curtain closes. Ryan's performance is over, and as the auditorium erupts in applause, I slip out and head backstage to put together my own scene for Darbus' class.

**-.-**

My name is Ryan Evans, and I am utterly enamored by the enigma that is Troy Bolton. He acts like the theater is something he hates, but when he's in it, what he does is like second nature to him. He swears he's not a singer, but he has the sweetest voice. A high baritone or a low tenor, perhaps, if you hit him hard enough. He professes a lack of dancing ability, but he will never tell anyone that his mother enrolled him in ballet classes as a young boy, _with_ his father's approval. Coach Bolton says that it helps develop flexibility and dexterity and endurance and other things-all-athletes-must-have-to-be-athletes. He was in my and Sharpay's class until seventh grade. I remember him coming up to me on his first day and asking me if we would have to wear tutus. I also remember looking strangely at him for thirty seconds and then giggling like a lunatic. When I told him no, the boys didn't have to wear tutus, he couldn't have been more enthusiastic about the whole idea.

He was an excellent danseur. He allowed our choreographer to do things that she hadn't been able to do with just me. Troy could lift some of the girls. He made me _compete_. Sharpay, of course, was incensed. I, on the other hand, relished it. I talked my father into helping me get to be as strong as Troy, so that I too could lift some of the ballerinas and make his job easier, as well as share the spotlight and allow Mrs. Dejour to perform even more complex moves.

Eventually, Coach Bolton decided Troy was flexible enough and should move into competitive athletics. I don't think I've been sadder in my life. His smile was infectious, his enthusiasm contagious, and he wasn't bad to look at either.

I appeared to be angry with him when he and Gabriella took the leads for Twinkle Towne, but that was only to appease Sharpay. He and she were far more suited for the roles than we were. Not to mention, easier for Kelsi to work with. I couldn't help but feel sorry for her every time Sharpay demanded more flash from her and stomped on her artistic vision. My sister really is a spoiled bitch.

But now … Troy's standing on center stage, and now that he's stopped looking at the audience, he's begun to move around and delivering his lines. His scene is also romantic, all of ours are, Darbus' orders. His is also one of realized attraction to a friend. The only difference is that his is in English. Troy's not the best at foreign languages. Probably because he spends every class off in la-la land as soon as the teacher greets us.

That's part of why I chose Jean's scene, because it was just … well, gay enough … to fit me, and because he was dealing with an attraction to a friend. The only difference between the two of us is that I've never told Troy that I'm captivated by him. I can only hope he was too busy drooling over my French to think about what I meant by it. That scene was probably the closest I'm going to get to telling him. It won't be long until we graduate and get the hell out of here and – unfortunately – away from each other.

"Look," he pleads, gripping the back of the folding chair, staring out into the distance. "I'm not asking you for too much, am I? Just…I guess, a promotion. I want to be more than friends. I-I like you. A lot. A little too much, maybe. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, and I mean that. A great friend, we have a lot in common too. Why don't you want to be my lover … Ryan?" he asks, and as the lights drop and the curtain closes, as everyone around me rises in rousing applause for their playmaker, I can't help but think that his eyes had locked right in on mine when he said his mystery partner's name. And that he'd meant me. When the curtain parts to reveal Zeke, I excuse myself. Partly to avoid a romantic monologue about baking directed to ingredients, and partly to find Troy as he changes backstage.

**-.-**

"Troy!" he hisses, making me stiffen as I try to remove the makeup from my face. "What the hell was that, just now?"

"What was what?" I ask, attempting to be nonchalant about it while scrubbing vigorously at some caked-on foundation on my right cheek.

"That! The saying-my-name-onstage!"

"What?" I ask, playing dumb as the cursed stuff finally takes its leave of my face, leaving me looking at least somewhat normal. Just in time for Ryan to grab me by my shoulder, spin me around, and pin me to the makeup room mirror.

"You know damn well what I'm talking about!" he exclaims. "Don't play dumb, Troy. Did you do that on purpose or not?"

"You want to know if I want to be with you, Ryan?" I ask, reaching my arms down to his hips. "Here's your answer." And with that, I lift him up into the air and draw him in towards me, where I plant a kiss on him.

**-.-**

To say that I am shocked is a definite understatement. To be honest, though, I'm not sure by what. By Troy pulling out a ballet move on me, or by him kissing me? I liked both, really.

"Well?" he asks. "Good answer?"

"Very good answer. Still got the moves, I see?"

"Do you want to see in detail?" he asks, grinning at me.

"You'd dance again for me, Troy?"

"Only if you'll speak French for me, Ry."

"Si tu le désirerais, mon amant," I say, smiling as he takes my hand.

"How do you say 'I love you' in French?"

"_Je t'aime_," I reply.

"Jay tamay, Ryan," he says, completely mangling the pronunciation while wearing his goofiest grin. I lean up and give him a chaste kiss.

"Je t'aime aussi, Troy," I reply, tugging on his hand. "C'mon…I know a great private place to dance." The last part is said with a suggestive waggle of the eyebrows, and is enough to pull Troy along.

_Pourquoi pas_, Jean? Non. Parce qu'il vous aime aussi.

_Fin_

**Notes: Well…I wanted to do that for a while. And by "for a while" I mean since about midnight Saturday when I wanted to hear somebody speaking French. **

**Phoenix II**


End file.
